The warm glow of torchlight flickers against the rough-hewn beams of the Devil’s Den tavern, casting long shadows across the scarred faces of mercenaries and soldiers alike. The thick scent of roast pork, stale ale, and unwashed bodies lingers in the smoky air. Laughter and the clatter of tankards rise above the low hum of a minstrel’s lute, his fingers plucking a tune that no one seems to pay much mind to.

Samuel sits near the hearth, his back to the wall—a habit he’s not yet shaken, even with Maleshov now firmly in their hands. The fight was hard, but the victory was theirs. His clothing that was under his armor bears the marks of the battle: scratches from blades that came too close, and dried blood that stubbornly clings to the leather straps. His sword rests against the table’s edge, still within reach.